


burial rites

by Engineer104



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Buried Alive, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, They're assassins, Torture, Waterboarding, Whump, but the mission goes very wrong, in the first scene, only at the very beginning though and it's not extensively portrayed, or like attempted - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 20:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18080018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: When the mission proves to be a huge waste of time, Pidge suffers.//or, Pidge and Lance are assassins that get separated when they can't locate their target





	burial rites

**Author's Note:**

> yes there is portrayed torture in the first scene of the fic. it's not terribly graphic, but it includes waterboarding at the very beginning and someone getting buried alive (almost), so if you'd rather not read about that skip to the second scene (ctrl+f "Lance has killed" should get you there)
> 
> in any case, many thanks to [Kat](https://cgf-kat.tumblr.com/), the master whump-er, for validating my whump and to [Rue](https://rueitae.tumblr.com/) for beta reading the whole thing ~~and catching all the inconsistencies i didn't~~
> 
> enjoy!!

Pidge gasps for breath as water drips down her face and soaks into her hair. Her throat and nostrils burn, so she coughs, searching for relief that can't be found with a drenched rag covering her face.

She tries to shake her head to knock the rag off, but rough hands still force her back so all she gets for her trouble is water up her nose.

Pidge's bare toes uselessly scrape the floor, seeking purchase, her arms wrenched high over her head with a chain looped through the thick rope binding her wrists. She grits her teeth against the nausea and dizziness and spits, "I already told you, I don't _know_ where Lotor is! If I did, why the hell would I have come here?"

She's pleased with the steadiness in her voice even as her whole body trembles, with the cold of the water sliding down her back and the fear gripping her with each second that passes and she still can't assess her surroundings.

She'd guess they're in an unfinished basement, the same one she ventured into against her own - and Lance's - better judgment. And either they found and stole her earpiece - her one link to her partner outside the dilapidated art studio - after she hit her head and blacked out or the water damaged it.

(The last thing she heard through the earpiece was Lance shouting her name.)

"We've heard good things about your firm," her assailant with the higher voice simpers behind her. She lets go, Pidge gasping in shock at the release of pressure on the back of her head, but then thin, strong fingers grasp her chin and turn her face in a direction she still can't see through the rag over her eyes. "The agents have a reputation for doing their research, so if anyone knows where he really is, it would be one of you."

"Your logic...isn't logical," Pidge says, her breath too short. "You just used a cheap trap."

"It worked, didn't it?" the other, gruffer one says. "But we were expecting a hornet, not a mosquito."

It doesn't hurt; it's easy to underestimate her and she learned to use it to her advantage, so Pidge smirks under the rag. "Mosquitoes carry diseases."

"It doesn't matter if we don't let them bite." A blow falls against her face, making her gasp and whipping her head back so forcefully stars dance inside her eyelids. But it dislodges the rag from her face even as Pidge furiously blinks tears out of her smarting eye.

A quick scan of the room ascertains it _is_ a dingy, unfinished basement with a dirt floor and flimsy walls with the boards only partially filled.

"Look what you did, Zethrid," the shorter of the two women chides, gesturing towards the rag. "Now she's seen our faces."

The bulkier woman raises her fist and sneers. "Like she'll be able to tell anyone about us after we're done with her, Ezor.”

A shiver of fear runs down Pidge's spine. Is this how it ends? She's been at this job less than a year, and this was her first _real_ lead...

But no, Lance will be looking for her.

But how long will it take? Pidge doesn't know how extensive the network of tunnels is, not when she dangles from the ceiling of a room she didn't see during her brief survey. How far did they take her from the place at the base of the stairs where they found her?

Ezor steps towards her, a teasing grin on her lips as she trails the handle of her whip down Pidge's cheek. "So if you don't know where Lotor is, maybe there's something else you can tell us."

"Like what?" Pidge demands, her eyes narrowing.

"Oh, Zethrid, who was that one operative that escaped the boss?"

"He was a hacker, wasn't he?" Zethrid says. She crosses her muscular arms, shrugging. "Scrawny guy; wasn't much fun to wrestle."

"Right, that guy!" Ezor says. She claps her hands together, smiling gleefully. "But he was cute, at least, right?" When Zethrid just rolls her eyes and snorts, she turns back to Pidge. "Kind of looked like you, actually..."

Pidge's breath catches, her legs thrashing uselessly, but the chains hold her fast, and she's quickly gasping for air all over again.

"Look at that, Zethrid," Ezor says, resting a hand on her hip and appraising Pidge. "She _does_ know something. What was his name?"

Pidge _knows_ Ezor addresses Zethrid, but she can't stop herself from blurting, "Matt."

Ezor smirks. "Oh, yeah! Want to tell us something about him?"

"Eat shit!" Pidge hisses.

"Wrong answer," Ezor scolds her before her whip whistles through the air and strikes her cheek.

A scream tears out of her throat, more from the shock of rough wire thrashing across her face than the pain. But the fire in her skin comes a heartbeat later, when hot blood oozes down her face.

Ezor leans towards Pidge, her eyes narrowed almost thoughtfully, and observes, "Now they really _do_ look alike."

Does that mean...did Matt receive the same treatment from these assholes? The thought makes Pidge's chest squeeze with fear for him...and anger.

But wait. "You said...you said he escaped," Pidge says. "W-when? From _who_?"

"Ah, ah, this is an interrogation, not a job interview." Ezor frowns, shaking her head as if she's disappointed. "We had such high hopes for you, didn't we, Zethrid?"

Zethrid just grunts and comments, "So...she's a dud. She doesn't even know where her own damn brother is."

Pidge's heart beats at the back of her head, painfully fast. She breathes shallowly, but refuses to look cowed, glaring up at Ezor. "Worried you wasted your time?" she hisses.

(Because she's worried she wasted _hers_.)

"Oh, torture is never a waste of time," Ezor says with a cheerful click of her tongue, "but in this case..." She glances over her shoulder at Zethrid. "I'd love to smack her around a bit more, but her partner will be on his way."

And that's Pidge's cue. She sucks as much air as she can into her aching lungs and screams.

Ezor clues in on what she's doing quickly, eschewing her whip and smacking a hand over her mouth. Pidge tries to bite her, tries to kick and headbutt, but she nimbly replaces her hand with the same sodden rag knocked off her face, only now she forces it between her teeth and ties it at the back of her head.

The gag is just one more thing on Pidge's lengthening list of hurts, so she rolls her eyes and glares - wishing looks could kill - at Ezor as she steps back to admire her handiwork.

"What should we do with her?" Zethrid asks. "You think boss lady would be interested in a pint-sized assassin? She can hold her against her brother."

"True," Ezor says with a thoughtful tap to her chin, "but I don't think we can get away fast enough, so ransoming her to _her_ boss lady is out too." She hums, scanning the unfinished room for ideas before her gaze lifts to the dusty light bulb dangling from the ceiling.

Pidge's heart thumps painfully while they decide her fate, her stomach tied into a heavy knot of dread. She just dangles from the ceiling, both saliva and blood soaking into the rag that was just lying on the dirt floor, her arms sore as blood drains from them.

Well, at least she's not as dizzy anymore.

"We should just get it over with and kill her," Zethrid says.

It's not surprising, not really. Pidge expected them to kill her from the instant she opened her eyes and they started waterboarding her. But her chest tightens, regret making her heart heavy as she thinks of all the things she never got to do: reunite with Matt, design the perfect surveillance drone, finish _Doctor Who_ with her mother, learn to ride a motorcycle, beat Lance's high score in Pinball...

God, she'll never tell Lance how grateful she is he agreed to their partnership, how she feels about him and his stupid flirty face and his stupid butt.

"Great idea, babe!" Ezor exclaims. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder and adds, "Why waste a perfectly good hole begging to be filled?"

Before Pidge can process the implication in her words, Zethrid smirks and unchains her from the ceiling. She gasps around her gag at the sudden loosening of her stiff muscles, held in one position for too long, but she has no time for any relief when her wrists are still bound together and Zethrid picks her up.

Pidge thrashes against her hold, jerking her fists towards Zethrid's face to no avail. She's beefy and indomitable, barely batting an eye on her muffled shrieks before she dumps her through a hole in the plaster wall.

Pidge tumbles to the ground, her elbows hitting and sending a shock through her arms. She stumbles upright to her cuffed hands and knees, heart racing in her throat and a stupid, pained whimper escaping her. "N-n-n—" she tries to say around the gag.

Dirt flies through the hole and scatters against the wall's other side and the floor. Pidge blinks a few particles from her eyes right as another cloud of dust joins the first.

She inhales some, sputtering through the gag. She presses against the wall as more and more dirt flies in, trying to push herself to her feet. But the hole in the wall is too high for her to even peer through, much less grab with bound hands and heave herself out.

Ezor chatters away on the other side. "You think her partner would know something about Lotor if we ask nicely?"

Pidge shrieks around the gag, pounding her fists against the wall even as the soil and plaster rise higher. Her blood boils with an almost alien rage; if they hurt Lance...

"Doubt it," Zethrid replies with a snort. "He's not a hacker like this one, so he'll be even more useless."

"Then the least we can do is bury him with her," Ezor says. "Wouldn't you like that, tiny assassin?"

Pidge would scream and shout curses at them if she could, but now it takes all her effort to raise her hands over her head, not when the dirt rises to her chest and the gag makes it so hard to simply cough and loosen the particles caught in her throat. She doubts there's a single orifice in her body clear of soil.

Her head throbs and spins again, her stomach turning, her whole body weighed down by the dirt. It's all heavier than she expected even after spending every spring - against her will - helping her mother lug bags of potting soil into the greenhouses.

Pidge uselessly tries to push dirt away from her. She swallows her rising panic, swallows all the pointless sobs that threaten to escape her. She _has_ to live, has to find Matt and return home and—

An unmistakable gunshot rings out, and glass shatters before the room plunges into absolute darkness. And no more dirt rains on Pidge's head.

"Oh, welcome!" Ezor greets. "We were wondering when you would show up, but I wonder...how are you planning on shooting us if you can't see us?"

"Like this," Lance growls before he fires another shot.

* * *

Lance has killed more people than he can count since he joined the firm. He aimed and pulled the trigger with someone within sight of his scope, muttering under his breath all the crimes they committed without consequence until Allura sent him into the field to end them.

But no kill ever felt like these.

His heart races, blood burning with rage as he fires each shot. The darkness doesn't bother him - his other senses are good, and he can predict their next moves - but it clearly does them, so it gives him an edge.

Air whistles as the big one (he thinks) swings her shovel towards him. Lance steps back, raising the handgun and firing a single shot, a pained groan his reward. Usually he might smirk in triumph, but with his body pumped full of adrenaline and Pidge still out of reach, he can't celebrate.

A whip winds around his left arm, jerking at him, but Lance tugs back. The captor at the other end gasps in surprise, but before he can shoot in that direction, the whip goes slack and the room silent.

Lance stills, holding his breath and body poised to strike. His fingers tighten around the handgun, ears peeled for the slightest hint of sound.

The cocking of a gun greets him before cool metal presses to his temple. "You think you're the only one who gets angry when their partner's hurt?" the same chick that spoke to him demands, her voice harsher.

Lance grits his teeth. "Maybe you should've thought of that before you tried to kill mine," he sneers.

"Oh, honey, there's no _tried_ about it," she retorts.

It's her final mistake.

The next gunshot is his and drops her instantly, but he doesn't bother checking if it did the job since a different frenzy grips him.

Lance flicks on his flashlight and shines it around the small, dirty room, heart pounding in his throat with each sweep that doesn't land on Pidge. A glint of metal chain links dangling from the ceiling fills him with anger all over again, at least until he spots the hole in the wall.

Lance runs towards it, towards a muffled whimper and wheeze that gets louder the closer he draws. "Pidge!" he shouts, reaching through before he even thunders to a stop.

Pidge's dirt-crusted, tear-streaked face stares up at him. He half-clambers through the hole, desperately shoving dirt aside towards the wall, enough that he can free her arms and wrap his around her body to heave her out with him.

They crumple to the floor, Pidge a shaking, coughing mess when he tugs the dirty gag away from her mouth. He wipes dirt off her face with the hem of his shirt, and though she's sitting here with him, her body blessedly warm and alive, his heart refuses to slow.

"Y-you're gonna be okay," he promises her, cupping her cheeks and kissing her dusty forehead.

Pidge nods, but not without a shudder ripping through her. Her fingers latch onto his shirt, and that's when Lance notices her wrists are bound with thick rope.

He fights the fresh wave of anger, instead finding his pocket knife and sawing through them. Pidge gasps when her wrists are freed, rubbing the raw, bruised skin before glancing around the dark room with wide eyes. "W-where did they—"

Lance reassures her, "They're not hurting you again."

Pidge meets his gaze, hers steelier than he expects to his relief. "G-good, but..." She trails off, frowning with something obviously on her mind.

"But what?" Lance demands. "Pidge, they—"

She shakes her head, and Lance decides against pressing, despite his frustration.

"W-we should do something about the bodies before we leave," Pidge suggests in a surprisingly steady voice.

"Y-yeah," he agrees, scanning the room till his eyes land on them, hatred filling him at the sight. "I think I know how."

* * *

Lance carries Pidge away from the scene, all the way through the dark, labyrinthine basement and up the stairs and out of the abandoned art studio. Outside it's later than when they arrived, at least an hour past sunset, but streetlights flood the area between the studio and their van.

Pidge weakly protested him picking her up at first, citing that he was probably tired after taking care of the bastards who tortured and tried to kill her, but when he held her anyway, she settled against his chest without complaint.

Lance wishes the first time he carried her like this was under better circumstances.

The streetlights throw Pidge's grimy, bloody, disheveled appearance into sharp relief. A grimace twists his lips, hot anger filling him all over again. A deep cut that oozes blood stands out against her cheek, one of her eyes is almost swollen shut, and her other eye is bloodshot. Dirt crusts her lips and skin, flecks of white plaster standing out in her hair, and when he makes the mistake of trying to dust some off, she winces when his fingers brush the back of her head. She looks small and vulnerable - more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her - bundled up in his jacket, and it _hurts_.

He could've prevented this if he tried harder to dissuade her from venturing into the basement, if he'd been faster to pursue, if he never agreed to the partnership she and Allura proposed, if—

Pidge coughs wetly, jerking him from his thoughts, and leans over to spit dirt-specked saliva onto the sidewalk. She groans, her arms flung loosely around his neck, and complains, "My mouth tastes _disgusting_."

Lance raises an eyebrow. "That was the grossest thing I've ever seen you do."

Pidge rolls her eyes. "You still laugh at fart jokes."

Heat fills his cheeks as he averts his eyes and mumbles, "They can be funny..."

She snorts but doesn't contradict them.

The van chirps when he unlocks it, and he carefully maneuvers Pidge in his arms to open the passenger door. He deposits her in the seat before his gaze roves over her face, taking in every bit - every speck of dirt or dried blood, every freckle, every eyelash - and not a little worried about letting her out of his sight.

Pidge stares back with wide eyes, color filling her cheeks. "Lance?"

"Uh..." He clears his throat and forces a smile he doesn't quite feel onto his face. "Seat belt?"

"Fine, Mom," Pidge grumbles, tugging it on with a click - but not without his jacket sleeves sliding down and flashing the bruises staining her wrists.

Lance shuts her door and quickly rounds the car, releasing a sigh of relief when he sits in the driver's seat beside her. But the silence that fills the car then is stifling, and he hesitates to turn the key in the ignition.

"What do you want to do now?" he wonders carefully.

"Take a long, hot shower," she says immediately.

"Maybe we...see Coran first," Lance suggests, peering at her from the corner of his eye. When Pidge shakes her head, her gaze fixed on her hands folded in her lap, he insists, "Pidge, you're hurt."

"Obviously."

Lance tries not to take her grumpiness personally. "But—"

"I'm not ready—I don't want to answer his questions yet," she tells him in a low voice.

"Then—"

"Take me home to clean up first, Lance," Pidge says, her eyes finally flicking back to him. "Then maybe we can...go to Hunk's. I would kill for one of his peanut butter-filled cupcakes."

Lance meets her eyes; in them he sees a plea for...normalcy, he thinks. Never mind the nasty cut on her cheek or her black eye or any of the other invisible hurts - physical or not - littering her body.

But he smiles and agrees, "Okay, we'll go with your plan."

* * *

Pidge can't find a rational excuse for Lance to sit in the bathroom with her while she showers. She walked just fine on her own power from the van up to her second floor apartment and has no problem undressing - reluctantly putting his jacket aside to launder and return to him later - aside from some soreness in her legs and arms.

Except for the stinging cut on her cheek, the swollen eye, the throbbing at the back of her head, and the burn in her throat and nostrils, she might be almost...normal.

But being alone right now fills her with an unreasonable fear.

She forces herself to bear it anyway; it's just a shower! Hot water washes away the dirt still caked on her skin and trapped in her hair, the heat easing the tension in her muscles, but when it comes time to rinse the blood off her cheek, it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. She draws back from the water, her heart stuttering in her chest, and washes the blood off with wet hands instead.

(What is wrong with her that she can barely clean herself without her air getting trapped in her lungs and her heart jumping into her throat?)

She concentrates on breathing, on the even pattering of water drops on the tub floor, and refuses to get lost in a spiral of thoughts. She scrubs and scrubs all the dust and blood and grime away until her fingertips are wrinkled and her skin pink and raw, before she turns off the water and nearly trips over the tub in her hurry to get out and towel off.

Lance sits at her kitchen table - cluttered with surveillance equipment prototypes she “borrowed” from the firm - when she emerges from the bathroom, cleaning his handgun with the same care she pays her tech. But he looks up at the sound of her footsteps, a smile lighting up his face...though worry colors it.

"How're you feeling?" he wonders.

"Better," she says, wiggling her toes and stretching her shoulders. Her heart finally slows and steadies, relieved to be done and refreshed despite her anxiety. She tugs the towel wrapping her hair off and drops it over the back of a chair. "You ready to go?"

"Are you sure you—"

"Yes," Pidge insists. She slips a sweater on over her tank top and shoves her bare feet into a pair of sandals.

She just wants to do something _normal_ , and their post-mission ritual of coffee and cake at Hunk's bakery is _normal_.

(She also wants Lance to stop looking at her as if she'll break, but she doubts that'll happen after the day's fiasco.)

But then Lance points to his cheek and says, "You're bleeding again."

Pidge reaches up, eyes widening when her fingertips touch a damp, warm liquid. "Oh."

"Told you we should've—" He cuts himself off with a sigh. "Do you have first-aid supplies?"

"Yeah," she says, "in the bathroom." She turns to retrieve them, but Lance beats her to it, pushing his chair back and stepping past her with a few long strides.

He returns with a box of Band-Aids and tube of Neosporin before nudging her shoulder. Pidge takes it for a silent instruction and perches in a chair beside his.

Even though she's perfectly capable of doing something so simple herself, she lets Lance wipe the fresh blood away with a tissue and smear ointment - probably too generously - onto the cut. His fingers are gentle, his breath warm where it brushes her skin, and every sensation sends little shivers up her spine.

Which is a rather...useless reaction to have to someone - even Lance - patching her up, in her opinion. So she holds her breath and avoids his gaze as he sticks three bandages over the cut.

"Coran could've done a better job," he grumbles.

"Probably," Pidge agrees with a shrug, "but this is good enough."

"You'll probably end up with a scar, Pidge," Lance points out.

She tries a smirk on for size, though it feels...fragile and forced. "I'll look cool and edgy," she jokes. "No one will mess with me anymore." When Lance barely cracks a smile, she desperately adds, "I guess the unfortunate side effect is that my good looks suffer."

_Now they really do look alike!_

Lance's warm chuckle tears her from the depths of recollection. "Not so easy to do that," he says.

Pidge bites her lip, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. She stands and throws away the bandage wrappers, saying, "We going or not?"

Lance holds the door open for her, but before she passes through his hand finds hers. The stupid gesture makes her heart stutter, and she's momentarily breathless when she looks up at him.

"What?" she says, quirking an eyebrow.

Lance frowns, reaching up with his other hand to smooth down one of the bandages on her face. "Nothing! Just..."

When he still hesitates - this is so not like him, and it has her chest tightening in worry - she squeezes his hand and says, "Then come on; Hunk won't be open all night."

* * *

Lance struggles to drive straight and not veer out of his lane. He can't take his eyes off Pidge - and not for the usual reasons.

He almost lost her to two psychos that tried to bury her alive, so he's not planning on letting her out of his sight anytime soon if he can help it. Waiting for her to finish showering had been hard enough, even when he found something to do with his hands, but a whole night?

At least he's guaranteed to see her in the morning - and make sure she survived the night - when they have to report to Allura for their botched mission debriefing, but now...

Pidge is too quiet, stuck in her own head while she gazes out the window. Lance searches for something - anything - to say that’ll draw her out, distract her, but for once he’s at a loss for words.

Several cleared throats and false starts later, Lance parks the van on the street in front of Hunk’s bakery. He steps out and feeds a few quarters to the meter, grumbling that maybe this time he should put this on his mission expense report - surely coffee and cake is a form of therapy? - before spinning around at the sound of the van’s door opening.

But it’s just Pidge, sliding out till her feet touch the ground. “So…” She shoves her hands into her sweatshirt pockets and nods towards the cheerfully lit bakery. “Who’s buying this time?”

“Me, if I have my way,” Lance says immediately, easily. The familiarity of the question sets him at ease, and it slips them into a routine.

Hit taken, mission complete, unwinding over sugar and caffeine while they chat nonsensically and decide what to leave out of their report to Allura until Hunk chides them for “keeping secrets”…

Lance doubts there will be much of that debate this time.

“You paid last time,” Pidge retorts. She leads the way to the door, and the bell overhead greets them with a cheery ring.

The heavenly intermingling scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, coffee, and chocolate saturate the air inside, almost suffocating in their strength. He inhales and smiles before raising an eyebrow at Pidge and wondering, “Did you even bring your wallet?”

Pidge rolls her eyes but mutters, “No…”

He smirks, already triumphant, and saunters up to the display.

Hunk stands with his back turned, working at the espresso machine. It hisses as it foams the milk before he pours it into a waiting pastel yellow mug. He slides it and its matching saucer across the counter, winking at Pidge. “I was wondering when you guys would finally show your faces,” he says before busying himself at the dessert display.

Pidge stares into the latte. “Is it flavored?” she asks, picking up the mug and staring suspiciously into it.

“Extra caramel, just for you,” Hunk promises.

Lance peers over her shoulder and muffles a snort at the art in the milk:  a small face with a zigzagging grin and a pair of obnoxious glasses.

Just like Pidge’s little avatar.

“It’s a good likeness,” Lance compliments. When Pidge shoots him an unimpressed glance, he smiles apologetically…at least until Hunk hands him his own drink.

“What is…this?” Lance turns the mug around, but the squashed heart in his mug only manages to look like an upside down squashed heart.

Pidge laughs and nudges him in the side. “I think Hunk put more effort into my latte than into yours.”

“But…” Lance frowns before glancing up at Hunk and his cheerful smirk. “I thought we were friends!”

Hunk raises his hands defensively. “We are, but it’s late, so next time you want more impressive latte art you come earlier in the day.”

“But Pidge’s—”

“Pidge has a black eye, Lance,” Hunk says. “Of course I’m going to do something nicer for her.”

Lance rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. Instead he looks to Pidge, wary that she might react to Hunk’s observation, but she just snickers and sets her mug on the counter before leaning over and saying, “I’ll have my usual, please, Hunk.”

“Peanut butter-filled cupcake?”

“You got it.”

While Hunk sets Pidge’s cupcake and a chocolate cake donut - Lance’s, per his request that Hunk always “surprise” him - on a tray, Lance extracts his wallet from his back pocket only for Hunk himself to say, “It’s on me tonight.” His eyes drift towards Pidge, gingerly perching at the edge of a chair in the corner with her latte in front of her; he leans across the counter towards Lance and mutters, “She looks like she needs sleep more than caffeine though.”

Lance represses a sigh and instead smiles; it’s not too hard, not when Pidge is safe and with him. “Well, you know our Pidge,” he says. “She’ll drink it and pass out an hour later if she has nothing else to do.”

“Right, well, make sure she doesn’t _find_ something else to keep her awake,” Hunk advises. “I’ll come talk to you guys after I clean up.” Hunk claps Lance on the shoulder before grabbing a washcloth and wiping down the counter.

Lance takes the tray - because who is he to turn down a free dessert? - and takes the chair beside Pidge. He pushes her cupcake towards her.

“It kind of looks like a cardioid too,” Pidge says, tilting her head to look into his mug.

“A what now?” Lance leans over the mug, his head close to hers.

“It’s a trig function that resembles a squished heart when you graph it,” Pidge explains before raising her own mug to her lips.

Lance can’t remember a thing from high school trig, but he grins, a stupid fondness filling his chest when she meets his eyes. “You know, you’re cute when you talk nerdy.”

Pidge sputters into her latte, spraying coffee and milk onto the table. She sets the mug down, coughing, her face turning red. “Th-thanks, Lance,” she stutters.

Lance, startled by her reaction, grabs a napkin and hands it to her. “Oh, shoot, sorry,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Pidge coughs as she accepts the napkin. “Y-yeah, just…how many times am I going to choke in one day?”

Lance’s eyes widen, his stomach turning with guilt because…well, good going, him.

“But, uh, really…” She smiles slightly as she peels the paper wrapper off her cupcake. “Thanks for bringing me here and not to the firm.”

He returns her smile, her gratitude setting him at ease, as they both turn to their desserts. His donut is as good as a donut can be thanks to Hunk’s handiwork, and Pidge obviously relishes her cupcake judging by the speck of peanut butter icing that sticks to her nose.

Lance laughs and points it out for her to wipe away, then wonders why he didn’t just do it for her. Her feet brush his under the table, and the normalcy of the atmosphere unwinds some of the tension in his body. Warmth fills his chest, warmth and an immeasurable gratitude that they can even share sweets and coffee.

Until his shirtsleeve slides down his arm.

Pidge’s eyes widen when they land on the purple strip winding around his skin. Before he can cover it, her hand shoots out, fingers gently grasping his wrist and pushing the sleeve up further. “Lance, when—”

“Must’ve been during the scuffle,” Lance supplies hurriedly. “I can’t remember when.”

Pidge touches the bandages on her cheek with an absent look in her eye. Lance swallows, because he knows where her mind drifted, but before he can bring her back, she asks, “Is there anything—”

“Nope,” he cuts her off, smiling in what he hopes is a disarming manner. He _was_ lucky to get away from that fight mostly unscathed, so he’ll be damned if Pidge fixates on his hurts when hers could’ve been so much worse. “It’s just a bruise, Pidge.”

“So is my black eye,” she points out with a pout that might be cute in any other circumstances.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t even notice this until you pointed it out,” Lance says…which is _true_. He was - and still _is_ \- too concerned about her state to care much about a bruise that isn’t even bothering him, so he extracts his arm from her warm grip and tugs his sleeve down to his wrist.

Pidge opens her mouth - possibly to call him out on what’s not a lie - but before she utters a word Hunk slides into the third chair at their table, batting his eyes at Lance. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Nope,” Lance says at the same time that Pidge grumbles, “Yes.”

Hunk stares between them before saying, “You two are the reason I only work part-time at the firm.”

Lance gasps, indignant, and presses an offended hand to his chest. “Us? What the hell did _we_ do?”

“Everything,” Hunk complains. “The bickering, the flirting—”

“The _what_ now?”

“—the pranks.” He jerks a finger at Lance. “ _You_ were bad enough on your own, but it was all downhill when Pidge quit dispatch and joined you in the field.”

Lance glances at Pidge and wonders, “Are you just going to take this from him?”

Pidge, to his shock, snickers. “Yes, because if he hadn’t retired, we wouldn’t be blessed with his peanut butter-filled cupcakes.”

Lance eyes the distinct lack of crumbs on Pidge’s plate. “I can see how that benefits you, Pidge,” he says, “but the world is missing out on Hunk’s expertise.” He gestures towards his friend - _some friend_ \- and sighs. “Why, Hunk, why.”

“I had a higher calling than cutting brake lines and arranging accidents,” Hunk explains simply. His fingers, not often caught still, fold a napkin into a crane. “Baking is better for my nerves too, and if I _really_ want a thrill, I just ask you guys or Keith about your missions.” He slides the finished crane towards Pidge before resting his elbow on the table and smiling. “So…how was today’s?”

Pidge tenses, but Hunk doesn’t seem to notice as he continues, “It must’ve been pretty epic if you wound up with a black eye.”

Lance crosses his arms, irritation crawling under his skin, and retorts, “Not how I would call it.”

“So you showed them?” Hunk grins and pats Pidge on the shoulder…

…or tries to. She shoves his hand aside, pushes her chair back, and announces, “I’m gonna use the restroom. Do you guys want anything?”

Hunk raises an eyebrow, obviously confused. “From the restroom?”

Lance half-stands and asks, “Do you want me to come—”

“Quit coddling me, Lance,” Pidge snaps before spinning around and stalking towards the back of the bakery.

Lance stares after her retreating figure, his heart heavy as he wonders if he should follow anyway. Should Pidge be alone right now? But her parting words sting and he doesn’t want to overstep, so he turns to Hunk and smacks him upside the head.

Hunk glares at him. “What was that for?” he demands.

“Are you freaking blind?” Lance exclaims, gesturing towards where Pidge went. “Can’t you tell she just had her worst mission ever?”

(And the worst it will remain if he has anything to say about it.)

“No!” Hunk says, raising his hands defensively. “I’ve seen you guys with worse injuries; _you_ ”—he prods Lance’s chest—“once sauntered in here with a broken arm and boasted that the other guy looked worse!”

A prickle of shame hits him, so he mutters, “Because I got the job done that time.”

“Then…” When Lance shakes his head, Hunk sucks in a breath. “What happened?”

Lance sighs, fresh anger spent, and buries his face in his hands. “It was a trap,” he says. “We spent almost two weeks surveying that art studio, checking for any funny business before going in, but our target wasn’t there. Instead we found two assholes that chained up and tortured Pidge, and they would’ve killed her”—by _burying her alive_ —”if I hadn’t gotten there in time.” His fingers close around a napkin - the crane Hunk folded - and crumple it into a wrinkly ball. “I still haven’t found the nerve to ask her if they wanted information or were just plain sadistic.” He’s sick to his stomach just thinking about it and furious all over again.

Shooting those bastards and burying them _dead_ was too kind a fate.

“God,” Hunk breathes. “How is she walking around after all that?”

“I don’t know, Hunk,” Lance admits. “She’s stronger than that though.” The restroom doorway draws his eye, but there’s no sign of Pidge. “We still have to report to Allura, and Pidge will have to talk about it.”

Because Allura will want to know everything; she’s nothing if not thorough, and if someone is luring the assassins working at her firm into traps, she’ll find ways to make them pay.

“I’m sorry I smacked you,” Lance says. He pats Hunk on the shoulder. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Hunk smiles. “I get it,” he says. “I’d be the same - all jumpy and angry - if someone tried hurting Romelle.”

“Your…fiancee Romelle?” Lance wonders with an eyebrow quirked.

“Do you know any other Romelles?”

With Hunk almost smirking at him, the implication sticks the landing. Heat rushes to Lance’s cheeks, so he does what any self-respecting assassin head-over-heels for his partner would do and buries his face in the crook of his elbow. “It is… _not_ the same thing,” he grumbles into his sleeve.

“Of course not,” Hunk says sardonically, “because Romelle would know that I’m smothering her out of concern because I love her and that she can lean on me, while Pidge might not get that.”

Lance dares to peek at him. “What’s your point, Hunk?”

“She’ll be too shy to ask you for certain…kinds of help if she doesn’t know how deep your feelings go.”

“Are you saying I should tell her?” Lance wonders. “ _Now_?”

“No, not now,” Hunk says, “but you really should soon. I’m just saying that…well, you’ll know what she needs from you better than I will.”

“What if…what if she doesn’t want whatever that is from me?” Lance asks, the very idea making his heart sink. He already feels impotent in the face of whatever trauma Pidge carries - _he should_ _’ve gotten there sooner_ \- so what if she doesn’t want anything from him?

Hunk pats him on the shoulder and explains, “The least you can do is offer; if she doesn’t accept, then that’s okay too.”

“Right, I—” he cuts himself off abruptly when a motion in the corner catches his eye.

Pidge finally emerges from the restroom, the door swinging shut behind her, and returns to them. Her gaze shifts from the floor to his face, but the frown on her lips fills him with an odd dread.

“Pidge!” Hunk greets her. “I was beginning to think you fell in.”

She laughs, though it sounds half-hearted and fragile. “Not this time.”

Hunk then stands and wraps his arms around her, engulfing her in a hug without saying a word.

Pidge’s eyes widen in surprise, but she returns his embrace with her eyes pinched shut.

Lance isn’t jealous of Hunk, no, not at all…and Pidge looks so small and almost frightened in his arms that his chest tightens with fresh worry.

At last Pidge steps away from Hunk and turns to Lance, pushing hair away from her face - away from her swollen eye and the bandages standing out on her cheek - and clearing her throat. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Lance.”

Lance blinks, surprised, and rubs the back of his neck, feeling more awkward around his partner than he has since…well, since ever. “Uh, it’s okay, Pidge.”

“It’s not,” she counters. She crosses her arms, her shoulders hunched, and adds, “You’re just trying to help.”

“Do you…want me to take you home?”

Pidge toys with the hem of her sweatshirt as she quietly admits, “I kinda don’t want to be alone at my apartment tonight.”

“You can spend the night in my spare bedroom,” Hunk offers.

Pidge sags and turns to him with a grateful smile. “Do I get carbs in the morning too?”

Hunk grins. “Only the very best carbs,” he promises.

Pidge laughs, a little more strongly this time, but then she looks to Lance and… “Then I’ll…see you in the morning at the firm when we have to face Allura?”

An almost alien panic grips Lance; they have to part so soon? But he forces a smile onto his face and says, “There’s no one I’d rather have at my side.”

Pidge’s smile falters, and for a second she looks like she wants to say something else.

But Lance remembers Hunk’s advice and blurts, “Unless you want me to stay with you.”

His heart pounds while he waits for her to either agree or deny, her face unreadable until a relieved grin stretches across her face. “Yes, I-I”—she clears her throat—”yes.”

Lance grins, but before he can even sag in relief, Hunk rests his hands on his hips and says, “You do realize there’s only one bed, right? You’ll have to share.”

Why the hell does he sound so damn cheerful about that? Lance for his part suddenly feels way too warm. “Uh, well—”

“Perfect,” Pidge says. Her fingers close around his wrist, and she bids Hunk goodnight before dragging Lance towards the stairs.

* * *

Pidge can scarcely believe there was once a time when she preferred solitude to Lance’s company. When she worked dispatch and had to call him to send him on a hit, he spoke too familiarly though they were near-strangers. Keith would simply grunt, and Hunk would be friendly but impersonal (at least until they got to know each other). But Lance…

Somehow, through chatting and teasing over the phone and a year-long partnership after she quit dispatch to better devote herself to finding Matt, she endured Lance…and he grew on her.

It’s an understatement of epic proportions when she can’t bear the thought of parting from him now, not after the day’s trials and his timely rescue. She expected to be more galled that this mission turned her into a literal damsel-in-distress, but now she’s just grateful the air she breathes is clean.

(Well, as clean as it can be in a city with too-lax regulations on carbon and particle emissions.)

She tries not to think too much about the possible implications behind her and Lance sharing a bed; after all, she wants him here, so she’ll have to live with it.

She strips down to her tank top in lieu of actual pajamas, watching Lance clutching his belt buckle and staring down at his dirty jeans. “You can take them off,” she tells him, shrugging as she jumps onto the full-sized bed. “It’s not like they’re hiding something I’ve never seen before.”

Lance looks vaguely constipated - it’s amusing though not an expression that suits him - but follows her suggestion, unbuckling his belt and shucking off his jeans till he stands in his t-shirt and boxer shorts.

(Pidge tactfully avoids eying his butt since the shorts _are_ rather flattering.)

They slip under the covers. Lance’s body is a warm presence beside her, but she resists its pull on her. She’s already asked too much of him to just keep her company and spend the night with her.

(Never mind that she just kind of wants him to hold her.)

She faces the wall beside the bed with her back to him and tugs the blankets up to her chin.

She regrets it immediately when the sensation of something nearly covering her face has her gasping and her heart racing. She pushes the blanket down to her waist and sags, staring sullenly at the wall while she catches her breath.

“Pidge?” Lance says, the bedsprings creaking as he shifts. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she lies. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re sure…” When she doesn’t respond, he murmurs, “Good night, Pidge.”

Pidge bites her lip before replying, “‘Night, Lance.”

Sleep waits beyond her grasp, her mind buzzing with nothing but the day’s events to occupy it. She pinches her eyes shut and tries to force her recollection away from Ezor’s simper and Zethrid’s glower, tries not to think of dirt filling her eyes and ears and nose, tries not to recall how damn helpless she was, and how maybe it all could’ve been avoided if she wasn’t in such a hurry and surveyed the property a little longer, and how Lance could’ve been killed as easily as he rescued her, and how she almost died after finding out her brother _escaped_ and—

“Pidge,” Lance’s voice, deep and husky in a way that might fill her with heat in any other circumstance, cuts into her thoughts, “you’re thinking too loud.”

Pidge freezes and exhales till there's no air left in her lungs (sort of). With her heart in her throat, she rolls over...and finds Lance already facing her, his eyes shining in the dark.

She reaches for him at the same time as he does her, her arms winding around his waist while his come around her back and pull her close till she can bury her face in his chest. She breathes shakily, careful not to press her nose too far, but she can still smell the faint but distinct scent of his spicy body wash.

His arms holding her firmly, his chest rising and falling so steadily, are the perfect comfort, so the dam she's built up all day bursts when the first broken sob escapes her.

* * *

Lance clutches Pidge as she cries, his shirt muffling her voice. His heart weighs heavily, useless as he ever was, but he runs a hand down her back and his fingers through her hair, careful not to touch the goose egg at the back of her head.

Her fingers grasp at the back of his t-shirt while tears and probably snot soak into the front. Lance doesn't care about the mess; he just wants Pidge to get better.

But better how? How does he erase what happened, turn back time so he can find her quicker or warn her that they'll find nothing in that damn art studio?

He almost lost Pidge - before she could even reunite with her missing brother! - and for _nothing_.

Lance reins in his rapidly rising anger and focuses on his partner sobbing in his arms. She needs to calm down - she's started hyperventilating, heaving great gasps of air, he realizes with alarm - so he urges her to sit up.

But he doesn't let her go; instead he pulls her halfway into his lap and starts talking.

"You're safe now, Pidge," he murmurs into her ear. "You'll rest, and you'll heal, and if you still want to go on missions"—the very thought of them separating on one again fills him with a heart-stopping fear—"I won't let anything like this happen to you again."

"Th-they were going t-to—they would've kill—b-buried me _alive_ ," Pidge whimpers, each word rising and lowering in pitch with her hysteria.

"I-I know," Lance tells her as a lump sticks in his own throat. He swallows around it, licking his lips before brushing them against her temple. "I-it was your worst mission, and we all have bad ones but never— _never_ that bad."

Pidge sniffles. "W-when was y-your worst?" she wonders.

 _This one,_ is Lance's immediate thought, never mind that the only injury he sustained is an ugly bruise that'll heal within a week, but Pidge won't want to hear that. So he rubs her arm and sighs before admitting, "It was my first one."

Pidge's breathing is steadier now, so he lies down and drags her with him. She snuggles into his chest - he pretends not to notice her pushing the blankets away from her face - and says, "O-oh? W-what happened?"

"Really?" Lance pulls away slightly to look at her tear-streaked face. "You don't know? You mean you didn't read about my history before Allura pretty much strong-armed me into partnering with you?"

To his immense satisfaction, Pidge snorts. "I did, but it's not like the reports are the same as your recollection."

Lance, unsure he wants to know the answer, wonders, "What does the report for it say?"

"That you...rushed to take the shot without Shiro's approval," Pidge explains haltingly yet almost clinically. "The target got away, and in the pursuit he was injured. Allura recommended you be taken out of the field and train for dispatch instead, but Shiro fought for you to be given another chance."

That old, familiar shame drops into his gut, but Lance chuckles and says, "That's pretty accurate."

"Anything you wanted to add then?" Pidge asks.

"Yeah, I do." This time when he runs a hand down her back, he's not sure if it's to soothe her or brace himself. "I was doing my field training with Shiro, and even before I met him the guy was practically my hero."

"Understandable," Pidge says with a note of amusement.

"But I also knew I wasn't as good as Keith," Lance continues. "He'd already been on a few missions with Shiro, and I wanted to prove that I _was_ better than him, so I ignored one of Shiro's orders and he ended up paying for it. We were just lucky we didn't get caught."

"So you think it was your fault Shiro got hurt and your target escaped?"

"Pidge, I _know_ it was my fault," Lance insists with a sigh. "You said it's even in the official report."

"I guess I can't argue with that," she concedes, "but"—she pulls back, her fingers tangling in his hair as she tugs his head down to look him in the eye—"you know what happened to me was definitely _not_ your fault, right?" Her gaze is startling in its intensity, and from this close he can see every shadowed curve and edge on her face.

Lance's breath catches; it's an awfully inappropriate time to be thinking of kissing her, but Pidge's reassurance means everything to him.

Though it does little to dispel his fears.

"Pidge..." He cups her cheeks, smoothing one of the bandages and wiping away the last of her tears. "I can think of a thousand and one ways I could've kept that from happening to you."

"Oh, well, I can think of maybe five or six," Pidge scoffs, "and I'm a genius, so you're wrong."

"Five or six are still too—"

"Lance," Pidge cuts him off with her hand resting on his jaw, "did you tie me up?"

"No, but—"

"Did you waterboard me?"

Shock grips him, his eyes flying wide. "Wait, they—"

"Did you crack a whip or pick up a shovel?"

"No." Lance grits his teeth and blinks away tears before burying his face - hiding it - in Pidge's hair, loose strands tickling his nose. "You have no idea how scared I was when I couldn't hear you anymore, Pidge." He fights to keep his breathing steady. "It was even worse than when I heard you scream."

"God, Lance..." Pidge's fingers trail through his hair, her breath warm and uneven against his neck. "You just—you have no idea how _relieved_ I was to see you. You were okay, and you dug me out, and you haven't left me since, a-and—" Her voice wavers as she sighs. "I chose you over any other hitman at the firm, so stop blaming yourself, you—you foolish, beautiful goofball."

Lance's eyes widen, and when he leans his head back, Pidge avoids his gaze. "Did you just call me—"

"Shut up."

"—a goofball?"

Pidge snorts before she outright giggles, muffling the sound in the crook of her arm. And Lance, desperate to commit it all to memory, smiles while a heat fills his chest.

"Wait," he says, something Pidge mentioned sticking in his mind, "didn't you say that Allura assigned you to me?"

Pidge's eyes shoot open, and if Lance had to guess she must not have meant to let that slip. "I, well, that's _technically_ true, but I...made my own recommendation."

"And you chose me over a veteran like Shiro or a standout like Keith?"

"Shiro was on the brink of retirement," Pidge explains, "and he's always treated me like a kid, so he was the last guy I'd want with me in the field while I'm learning and looking for Matt. And Keith has impressive stats, but he works better without a partner or trainee to keep track of." She tucks her hands into his chest, staring at her open palms. "You've been...more patient with me than I sometimes deserve, you taught me how to shoot straight—"

"Your aim _was_ pretty bad when you started out."

"—you're fun to be around between missions and during long ones, and even when I was still a dispatcher I...tolerated you."

" _Only_ tolerated?" Lance scoffs and rolls his eyes, but he's amused despite her word choice, happy to soak in her praise. "After all we've been through together?"

Pidge laughs. "Lance, that was over a year ago," she says. "I feel a little more strongly about you than just toleration now."

He's not sure why - not when she damns him with faint praise - but something in her tone sends warmth rushing to his face. He rests his forehead against hers and clutches her hands to his chest, saying, "Well, I'm flattered you thought so highly of me."

One of Pidge's hands escapes his grasp to caress his cheek, forcing him to repress a shiver. "Maybe someone else could've saved me as well as you did today," she murmurs, her gaze capturing his, "but you're the one I needed with me tonight."

"I'll be with you whenever you need me, Pidge," Lance swears, "and even when you don't, so long as you want me there." His heart pounds away against his ribs with the solemnity of his promise, and he wonders if Pidge can feel its strength under her hand.

"I'm with you too," she says.

Pidge surprises him when she slides closer and brushes his lips with hers, a kiss soft and tender as a whisper. "Thank you, Lance," she breathes. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

A smile pushes at his lips, and he can even feel the curve of her own against them. "Probably outmatch Keith."

Pidge hums. "I...understand the sentiment, but I think today proved that's not it."

"Then next time you save my life, and we'll call it even. Deal?"

"Deal," Pidge says with a soft laugh. "I forbid you from dying before you meet my brother anyway."

Warmth floods him, and he feels oh so ridiculously fond. "Oh, really?" Lance raises an eyebrow. "Would you fight an angel of death for me?"

"In a heartbeat," Pidge admits without hesitation and without shame, her tone fierce...though the yawn stretching her face ruins the effect.

Lance chuckles, though the exhaustion of the day tugs at him, urging him to sleep, too. "You ready to sleep for real?" he wonders. "And at a reasonable time?"

Pidge snorts then says, "I think so." She wraps her arms around his waist and presses her cheek to his chest right over his heart. "Just don't let me go."

"Never," Lance promises, because the least he can do tonight is keep Pidge secure in sleep. So his arms tighten around her, holding her close with one hand clutching her shoulder and the other carding through her hair.

(In the morning they'll worry about reporting to Allura and Pidge's invisible, long-term injuries, but for now they'll dream with the knowledge that someone who loves them and wants them safe sleeps in their arms.)

**Author's Note:**

> ~~last line so corny i still cringe~~
> 
> let me know what you thought!!


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